[TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with content
relating to sexual assault and violence that may be triggering to survivors.]
[Disclaimer: Be forewarned. This post is candid and will reveal very
personal information. Proceed with care.]
Thursday, September 11, 2014. The date is burned into my brain. What started
out as a fun night turned into the most confusing and disturbing experience of
my life. I was at a coworker's house. My girlfriend was out of town. I was
lonely and depressed, and I just wanted to relax and forget about my problems for a little while.
I downed a beer. I was
feeling pretty good. My coworker insisted I have another drink. I declined
several times but he persisted, so I agreed to have just one more. He told me
he would get the drink for me. He insisted that he pour it in a glass for me because I was "a real lady" and shouldn't have to drink from a can. Bristling slightly at the "lady" expression, I assured him I didn't give a rat's ass about drinking from a can. However, he went to his kitchen and, in a minute or two,
came back with a glass filled to the brim with fizzy beer. My brain hitched for
a split second. I wondered why the beer was fizzing so much when he was professionally trained to pour drinks in such a way to prevent that very thing. I wondered why he had insisted he bring me a beer in a glass
instead of the can. I decided I was probably just being paranoid and shrugged it off.
A few sips later, everything got blurry. Everyone's voices sounded like they
were in a tunnel. The light in the room seemed to dim. "Why do I feel like
this?" I thought to myself. I was a very seasoned drinker at the time, and it took me quite a few drinks to get drunk. I had only had one shitty weak beer and a sip of a second one. It didn't make any sense.
After things got blurry, I think several more drinks got pushed into my hand, although I can't remember for sure. Suddenly, everyone was leaving all at once and it was just me and him there. I did not know how many
drinks I'd had at that point, but I knew for sure there was no way I could drive home. I had never before felt as incapacitated as I did that night. It felt different, too. I didn't feel drunk. I felt completely helpless. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. He offered his
bedroom to me, saying he would sleep on the couch. He lifted my basically limp body and carried me upstairs. Before I realized what was going on, my clothes had been torn off and thrown to the floor. I wanted to scream, but the lump in my throat was absolutely paralyzing. My memory of the rest of the night is mainly a
blur, interspersed with vivid moments of horror––moments I do not feel comfortable recounting.
The next morning, I woke up next to him. There I was, a
twenty-two-year-old woman, wounded and ashamed. There he was, a
forty-something-year-old man, sleeping peacefully, as if what had happened the
night before was completely normal. My muscles ached and my head pounded. I
looked down at my bare body and instantly noticed the bruises on my arms and
thighs. I thought for a second that I should probably cry, but I was completely numb. I
stumbled out of the bed, crept downstairs, and drove home.
He texted me over and over that next day. Apparently, he thought I had
been "into it." He wanted to "hang out" again. Before
I knew it, I had agreed to go over to his house. For the people who have heard
my story already, that is the part they have always interrogated me about. "Why
did you go back?" "What is wrong with you?" "What were you thinking?" And, honestly, I don't know. I was in a daze I could not shake. Those next couple of days, the things I did and said were completely out of character for me, and made absolutely no sense. Although I was aware of what was happening, it felt as if someone else was controlling my mind and my body. I had no idea what was going on. Part of me was
scared. Part of me was positive that my relationship with my girlfriend was already
over––why would she ever want to be with me again? And because of that, I felt dead inside. I felt
like a disgusting, worthless piece of garbage. But there was one
thing I was certain I was still good for: sex. When I think back on it now, I feel that going back was fueled perhaps by some subconscious motivation for me to regain some sense of control over my own sexuality again. So, as disgusting as it
made me feel afterwards, I went back again. On that second drive back from his house, I
had never felt more worthless in my life.
I tried to convince myself I had, in fact, "wanted it" at the time. After all,
why wouldn't I have run away? Why would I have gone back? But as time went on, I knew I had never "wanted it". I didn't love him. I didn't care for him. I didn't even think he was attractive. There have been plenty of
times throughout the course of my life that I really wanted to get physical, with both men and
women, but this was not one of them. This wasn't an example of "regret sex" as so many people have made sure to suggest to me. I did not decide to have sex with someone and end up later wishing I hadn't. That night, I was physically incapable of consenting and, therefore, it was rape.
I ended up quitting my job. How could I possibly ever work next to
him again? I regretted having to do that, though. I loved that job. I wished I had
reported him, but I didn't. It took me months to realize that what had happened was actually rape, and that a date rape drug was most likely involved. At that point, it seemed too late to report it and, besides, after so many people I thought were in my corner made sure to tell me that they thought I was lying, I thought, "How would a judge ever believe me?"
I sometimes replay the parts of the night that I can remember, thinking of all the things I "should have" done. I wish I could have screamed. I wish I could have punched him. I wish I could have run away. I wish I could have had enough mental clarity to stumble outside and sleep in my car. Anything but what happened. I can still hear his raspy voice. I can still smell the scent of stale cigarettes on his breath. I can still see his smug face. And I still feel the shame because, somehow, somewhere deep down, it still feels like it was my fault. Why did I go over there in the first place? Why did I drink? Why did I let him pour that beer? Why didn't I say something when I was scared? And why on earth did I go back? These are questions that others have asked me, and questions that sometimes still plague my mind. But I try my best to resist the urge to blame myself. I know in my heart that he drugged my drink that night. I know in my heart that I was physically incapable of saying "no" or fighting back. I know in my heart that I was raped.
I once wished he could experience the fear I felt that night. I once wished he could experience the shame I felt walking into that women’s clinic and having to be tested for STI’s. I once wished he could experience the dread I felt waiting for the
results of that pregnancy test. But those feelings have gone now. I don't even care what happens to him anymore. I have learned to be at peace with my feelings towards him, because all those feelings do is hold me down.
As
much as it still hurts, and as vulnerable as it makes me feel, my story still begs to be told. Knowing that there may be even the tiniest chance that this post will provide comfort to someone else who has suffered something similar fills me with a great peace that I am doing the right thing.
Part of what made things so bad about telling my story is that, at first, thanks to rape culture, I didn't realize I'd been raped. I tried to shrug it off as a mistake on my part, as something I did wrong, which meant that, when I realized what had actually happened, the people I had already talked to didn't believe me. And I get that. But, to those of you reading this who may have never experienced sexual assault, please, hear me when I say: If someone tells you they have been raped, just BELIEVE THEM. This is not an easy thing to share. If someone trusts you enough to open up about this to you, please, don't call them a liar.
And if there is another victim out there who is reading this post, I
want you to know, this is for you. Even if you are the only one who knows what
happened, your experience is real. Your confusion is real. Your pain is real.
And your strength is real. You are beautiful. You are magnificent. You are precious. And you are not alone.
